The Fall
by PWinchester
Summary: A Reichenbach Fall story from John's POV. I am only posting this first part of Chapter 1 to see how I'm doing. I would LOVE comments or suggestions, but be civil about it please! The entire story is a sort of platonic Johnlock fiction and I've got to say I'm really excited. It's the first real story (not a one shot) I've written. It's a lot more difficult than I thought.
1. Chapter 1

"SHERLOCK! NO!" I screamed into the darkening sky, causing several pedestrians to abruptly halt their paths. There was absolute silence, aside from the ringing in my ears as Sherlock plummeted to the ground. My hand remained outstretched but there was no use trying to save him now, the deed was done.

My hands fell to my side and my fingers released their grasp on my mobile. It shattered on the ground but that couldn't have mattered less in that moment. Shouting and frantic chaos ensued around me, yet I was plastered to the spot like a statue. My eyes looked straight forward and I saw nothing. I couldn't see Sherlock's body on the ground; he had fallen behind the container in front of St. Bart's. All I saw was the detective falling to the ground over and over in my mind. For whatever reason, I decided there could be a possibility that Sherlock was alive. My shocked and panicking brain thought briefly that just _maybe_ he could still be here. Banged up, sure, but I refused to believe that the most incredible man I had ever known was gone just like that.

Like magic, I unglued myself from the pavement and began running towards where my detective had fallen. I couldn't run fast enough, there was already a crowd forming around Sherlock's body.

"Excuse me, let me through! MOVE!" I shouted at the nurses and passers-by that had gathered "He's my friend, let me through! I'm a doctor!"

The crowd let me pass a bit, although arms and hands kept trying to prevent me from getting too close. I had seen much worse in Afghanistan yet seeing Sherlock on the cold ground, lying in a puddle of rainwater and his own blood, was definitely the most horrific thing I could've ever imagined. I dropped to my knees by my detective, desperately searching his face for any indication of life. I squeezed his cold hand, and rested my fingers on the inside of his wrist.

Nothing. I couldn't feel a thing. I switched my fingers and still nothing.

Sherlock Holmes was gone.

**Later that day**

"Alright Mr. Watson. We're going to let you go home now and have a rest. And again, I can't tell you how sorry I am. He was a good man, that Mr. Holmes." The emergency personnel tried to be comforting, and I suppose they were to a certain extent. But nothing in the world could've made me feel anything at all. I continued to sit on the curb with a shock blanket around my shoulders for a few minutes, then decided I had no reason to stay here anymore. Waiting around and watching them scrub blood off the sidewalk wasn't going to bring Sherlock back. They'd already wheeled the body away. I didn't even see it go. I hoped Molly wouldn't have to be the one to examine him later.

Rising stiffly, I left the blanket on the sidewalk and picked a random direction to begin walking. I shuffled at half of my normal pace (well, half of Sherlock's normal pace anyway. I suppose it became my pace as well because Sherlock didn't wait for anyone) and after about ten minutes of walking I began to actually feel the shock. My vision blurred as I limped over to grab onto a light pole, I endured the dizziness for a few minutes until I could stand up straight again. _Jesus Watson, you aren't fucking drunk. __You've been through this before; you've had loads of friends die. This isn't new. _I knew I was kidding myself. Nothing had ever compared to this. I keeled over beside the lamppost and disposed of every last bit of food in my belly. Perhaps I should just hail a cab then.

The cabbie began to attempt a conversation with me, but then noticed I looked like hell in the rearview mirror.

"Eh, you're a Mr. Watson yeah? Damn mate, I just heard about yeh partner's dive off the top o' St. Bart. So sorry about that." He murmured.

"No mind. Just… take me to… Baker Street I suppose" I muttered. There was nowhere else to go. I wasn't in any shape to be wandering the streets by myself. I am a doctor after all, I know when I should be worried about the state of my health. Mrs. Hudson probably would've heard by now as well and I couldn't leave her alone.

We soon pulled up to the blue door of 221B Baker Street. "No charge mate." The cabbie patted my hand as he pulled away from the curb. I trudged inside and shut the door as quietly as possible. No sign of the landlady/housekeeper. I didn't want to talk anyway. Or hug or comfort. There was nothing to do about it. Nothing could be of comfort to me, aside from a ridiculous miracle bringing Sherlock back to life. What was I supposed to do now? How did he expect me to be able to move on with my life? Was he thinking I would just go back to work and never be bothered with cases again? Did he honestly think I was better off like that? Letting myself rot in the hospital while there was real danger happening in the world?

I shuddered as I attempted a deep breath. I hadn't cried. Yet. _One foot in front of the other, Watson_. I tried to give myself some sort of encouragement that I knew was stupid and pointless. I quietly ascended the staircase and grabbed the knob of our door. _My_ door now. I knew he wouldn't be there, but every part of me couldn't help but hope that he would be sitting in his armchair, or aiming a gun to the wall, or hell, even standing by the window puffing on a cigarette. Then he would smile at me and say something snarky and irritating. I would point out how much of a cock he was for doing that to me, and I would spend the rest of the evening sulking but secretly being extremely relieved. And he would know that I was secretly relieved because he was Sherlock and could probably tell me what Lestrade had for breakfast two days ago with just a glance. Although it would probably have been rather obvious without my friend's ridiculous deduction skills.

_"It's all just a magic trick"_ I heard him whisper in my mind. I stood in the middle of the flat, shoved my fists into my pockets, and began turning in a slow circle inspecting everything on our walls as well as the table, and the sofa, and the mantle. All of Sherlock's notes and pictures were still hanging there as if he was in the middle of a case. I glanced at his desk and saw nicotine patches and cigarettes scattered about, like someone had dumped out a whole box and just strewn them about for no reason. I picked up a cigarette, twirling it between my fingers. _Sentiment is a chemical defect. For the losing side _I thought. _Well, fuck it. Just… fuck it all I might as well._ I thought, staring at the cigarette. Seeing a lighter next to the patches, I picked it up and lit it. I balanced the deathstick between my lips and stared out the window, dragging on it methodically. _This one's for you, my friend. My best friend. How the hell did you stand these things, they're fucking awful….. _


	2. Chapter 2

****Everyone says that time heals all wounds. Just give it time, you'll feel better.

I've been waiting around for a month and nothing feels better. Nothing feels worse, nothing _feels_ at all. I think I've left 221B Baker Street twice for reasons other than visiting Sherlock's grave since The Fall. Every day, as soon as I am able to drag myself out of bed, I walk to the cemetery to be with my detective. Sometimes all I can stand is fifteen minutes, and other times I'm there for hours. I usually talk to him, sometimes I just sit there with my back against the headstone. The first time was probably the worst. The headstone was clearly marked "SHERLOCK HOLMES" yet it didn't seem real to me. It felt pretend. Fake. _It's all just a magic trick_.

No. I refused to believe that Sherlock had been a farce.

"You… you told me once that you weren't a hero. Hm… there were times that I didn't even think you were human. But let me tell you this, you were the best man and the most human…." My voice cracked like glass "… human being that I have ever known, and no one will ever convince me that you were a lie."

_I must look like a madman, standing here lecturing a gravestone. There's just so many things I want to say to him. So many things I wish I had said but never took the chance. _

"So.. there. I was so alone and I owe you so much. Please, there's just one more thing. One. More. Thing." Tears were rolling down my face now; this was the first time I had cried since The Fall. "One more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't be… dead. Would you do that, just for me? Just stop it… stop this."

I sunk down to the ground, kneeling on the recently dug up earth. I ran my hands up and down the legs of my jeans, rocking slightly back and forth. The tears refused to stop by now and I honestly couldn't see a thing. After a time I decided I couldn't stay here anymore so I shakily rose to my feet.

I rested my hand against the headstone, as if my hand laid on my friend's shoulder "Good afternoon. For now. I'll be back tomorrow Sherlock…..promise."

I plastered on my "military face", turned, and trudged away without looking back. As I kept on walking, I noticed that my gait was feeling strange. Almost as if I was beginning to limp again.

Every day, without fail I would go and sit at the grave. Every day I would pull a pack of cigarettes from my pocket and lay one next to the headstone then light one up for myself. _Disgusting_. As a doctor (well, former doctor I suppose. I hadn't been to work in over a month and a half, and before that my attendance was spotty at best), I despised smoking. All it was is begging for nasty cancer of some sort. Yet I couldn't go a day without at least one. I would sit against the headstone, or in front of the grave dragging on a cigarette and glaring at the ground in front of me. Sometimes I stuck a nicotine patch to my arm just because I didn't want the extras to go to waste.

A lot of times, when I talked to Sherlock I just sort of pretended that he could hear me. I would tell him about what Mrs. Hudson had left me to eat. I never really ate any of it. I told him what I had done that day. Usually my nights consisted of laying in bed, unable to sleep. Then I would move out to the armchair and stare into space for a while, maybe I'd have a cigarette or tea. I might have a shower, or read the comments on my blog. I never really did anything of importance honestly.

I told him what I had read in the papers or seen in the news. There were lots of murders and lots of mysterious crimes happening, and the more I heard about them the angrier I became. One day, I had been staring into space with the telly on (it was constantly on; silence only made everything worse) when I heard about this story that had been developing for weeks. There was a serial killer on the loose, pretending to be a reincarnation of the infamous Jack the Ripper. I knew it was something that would've made Sherlock ecstatic. Lestrade had even phoned me to see if I had any ideas about who could be behind this or when he would strike again. I told him to shove it where the sun would never shine and hung up the phone by throwing it across the room. I scared Mrs. Hudson half to death I think.

Anyway, I just couldn't bear the thought of even attempting to solve a case without Sherlock. I wasn't him and I didn't want to be. I wanted to be his doctor/blogger trailing along and sometimes being helpful. On cases, I was there to occasionally save his life or something; I wasn't a detective. I wasn't going to try and be one either.


End file.
